


Learning Curve

by altschmerzes



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Autistic Caleb Widogast, Campaign 2 (Critical Role), Daydreaming, Families of Choice, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Loneliness, Plans For The Future, Platonic Cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:53:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24261634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altschmerzes/pseuds/altschmerzes
Summary: Bored and waiting for the others to return from scouting ahead, Jester asks Caleb an odd question that gets him thinking.---“What is your dream, Caleb?”“I dream about a lot of things, so you’re going to have to be a touch more specific.”“No, not that kind of dream. Like- like a for you kind of dream. A dream that you can think about to make you happy, a dream for your life.” When he doesn’t answer, Jester goes on, saying, “Here, why don’t I go first. My dream is a garden.”
Relationships: Jester Lavorre & Caleb Widogast
Comments: 16
Kudos: 75





	Learning Curve

**Author's Note:**

> things i should be doing: studying for the LSAT given i have to take that hell test tomorrow, working on any of my existing wips, cleaning my apartment...
> 
> things i'm doing instead: this i guess?
> 
> first critrole fic, and of course it's neither of the two ideas i had started outlining last week. there's no real timeline on this, no clear setting either. i'm pretty late to the party - only on episode 13 - so it's gotta be set early in c2. not written to be shippy just soft and affectionate. anyways, enjoy, and know this is just the first you'll be seeing of me around here!

> _We had a white picket fence in the front yard_
> 
> _Where our grass was plenty green_
> 
> _Every window in our house welcomed in the sun's company_
> 
> _We had hardwood floors and unlocked doors_
> 
> _Our glass was plenty full_
> 
> _Though our bills were only barely met, our hearts were plenty whole_
> 
> _\- Sleeping at Last, "Learning Curve"_

The road they’ve been traveling on for the better part of two days has come to an abrupt split, one not marked on the map they’ve been following. Both forks head in roughly the same direction, but there’s no signage anywhere, and no indication as to which direction would be the best one to take. The suggestion, proposed by Beau, seconded by Molly, and accepted all around because, well, what else can they do, is to scout ahead. Just a ways down each road, seeing what lies ahead and reporting back on their options.

Sticks were drawn to see which two would stay back with the cart at the fork and who would pair off and head down the branches. It all happened very quickly, and it prompted the same sharp, sick twist in Caleb’s gut that it always does, to see Nott become a distant figure, walking away from him. He shoved it down hard, though, and forced a smile onto his face when she’d paused briefly, glancing over her shoulder at him.

It’s just a quick scouting trip, back in no more than an hour or two, and it’s not like they’ve never split up before, even in recent memory. But from the beginning this morning Caleb has felt… odd and off. Something isn’t quite right about the way the world presses in around him, the way he exists in it in return. It feels like he was put back in his body wrong when he woke up and hasn’t been able to settle since. 

That’s how he’s ended up where he is now, laying on his back in the cart, staring up at the sky. Molly had lowered the cover of the cart at some point earlier, when it was clear it was going to be the kind of beautiful, clear day that didn’t even remotely threaten rainfall. It leaves Caleb with an unobstructed view now, a pale sky and the very tops of trees with leaves just crisping from green into ochre and orange.

Clouds scuff across the treeline and there’s the faint sound of a pair of birds somewhere in the distance, a call and response. There’s the slightest buzz in Caleb’s throat, like he wants to call back to them, but it doesn’t quite manifest itself. The urge to act on an instinct to echo their whistling song dies before it can leave his mouth and he’s got only that buzz left behind, the faint reminder of an action unfulfilled. 

There are things he could or maybe should be doing right now. Reading, spellwork of one kind or another, double checking supplies to make sure everything is still as it’s supposed to be. But here he is, laying here, listless and drifting, unable to summon the will to do any of it. 

The meandering, dead end train of thought is ground abruptly to a halt by the sound of footsteps, followed by the cart creaking and shifting under him. Caleb’s eyes flick away from the sky to watch, puzzled, as Jester finishes climbing up onto the cart and flops back onto the low pile of bedrolls next to him. She wriggles for a few moments, getting comfortable against the coarse pack material. 

In the course of this, Jester has scooted over until she’s pressed against Caleb’s side. Her jaw bumps against his shoulder, the edge of one of her horns whispering catching slightly in his hair. Once she seems satisfied, Jester pulls the arm that’s ended up trapped between them free, reaching over to where Caleb’s far hand has been resting over his own stomach. She grabs it and pulls it towards her, twisting so that his palm is cupped over the back of her hand, his fingers curled over and tangled with hers. 

“Is this okay?” she asks, and Caleb takes a moment to consider it. 

Jester’s body is a soft, heavy warmth against his side. He can feel her breathing where his elbow is poking her in the ribs - probably uncomfortably, though she’s done nothing to move it. It’s a feeling he’s not at all used to - she’s so very different from Nott, who is the only person who’s touched him like this in a very long time, but it’s… Nice. Caleb feels grounded, present and steady, in a way he hasn’t felt all day. 

There’s a little squeeze of his hand like she might be getting ready to let go, and that’s what finally does it, pulls the words out of him, “No, it’s- I mean yes. Yes, this is fine. It’s fine. Thank you.” 

Then things just… settle. Caleb stares up at the sky, watching the leaves at the very tops of the trees flutter in a slight wind. The alarm he’s set at a decent perimeter around the cart will let them know if trouble arrives, so there’s nothing for him to pay attention to aside from the bright birdsong of Jester’s voice. 

At the moment she’s ruminating on the various ways the other four could have been paired up to explore the left and right paths, and how the way it ended up shaking out from the lottery they drew - Nott and Beau headed down the left, while Fjord and Molly took the right - must mean that the Traveller was smiling on them today.

“On account of they’re going to have the most fun, you know? If this were supposed to be a serious scouting mission then Nott would have gone with Molly and Beau would be with Fjord. They would have kept each other focused, but not as much fun, I think.” There’s a beat, and Jester snorts. The short huff of amusement shakes against Caleb’s side. “Maybe we should have color coded them, yes? Green team, that’s Nott and Fjord, they could go left, and purple and blue crew, that would be Molly and Beau, they could have the right.”

It’s impossible not to be amused by the thought and Caleb is somewhat surprised to feel a laugh of his own bubble up in his lungs. It’s small and silent but he knows Jester felt it. She shakes his hand, a pleased little jerk at his wrist, and Caleb’s shoulders loosen, relaxing. 

After that she moves on to other topics, picking up on tangents and non-sequiturs that would be strange if it were anyone else. A bird flies overhead, a vivid splash of jeweled red and orange against the pale blue of the empty sky. Jester points at it, pulling Caleb’s hand along with hers rather than letting go, held in the air together for a long moment. She doesn’t seem to mind that he’s not saying much in response, preferring to listen to her and hum every so often in agreement or acknowledgement. 

“What is your dream, Caleb?”

The question comes as a surprise in its address of him, inescapably personal and specific. Personal, specific, and redundant. They’ve shared a campsite, slept near enough to each other that he knows she has an answer to that question already. Jester knows he dreams. They all do, much though Caleb might wish that weren’t the case.

“I dream about a lot of things,” he says, a little stiff and plenty uncomfortable, “so you’re going to have to be a touch more specific.”

The sigh pushes against Caleb’s side as Jester’s ribcage expands and deflates. Her cheek presses harder against his shoulder as she turns slightly more towards him, the edge of a horn brushing the side of his head. 

“No, not _that_ kind of dream. Like- like a _for you_ kind of dream. A dream that you can think about to make you happy, a dream for your life.” When he doesn’t answer, Jester goes on, saying, “Here, why don’t I go first. My dream is a garden.”

The way she describes it to him, it’s almost like it’s right in front of them. Caleb closes his eyes and can see it. Jester’s garden. All the little details, so specific and easily called up, as if she’s been to this place a million times, though it doesn’t actually exist. Wildflowers by a fence and sweet peas winding up a trellis built from scratch, a bit crooked but strong enough to stand. A handful of trees, too young and small to bear any fruit, but steadily growing under a bright sun and patient hands. Paths of stepping stones, glittering bits of polished colored glass set into patterns. 

Caleb has never heard someone talk about bees with so much fondness before. 

“Okay, now you go.”

So caught up had he gotten in listening to her talk, imagining the garden she’s described, that Caleb had lost track of the initial question she’d asked. That Jester told him about the garden because he hadn’t understood the question when she’d asked him what his dream was. He thinks he understands now, but the thought, the faintest forming shadows of an answer to a question he hadn’t really thought about before, catches in his throat, stuck there half-formed. 

Caleb’s silence drags on for just long enough that it starts to get really awkward, and then, without entirely deciding what he’s going to say, he’s talking.

“A house,” he says. His voice sounds nervous and stilted even to his own ears, and Caleb swallows hard. Tries to sound more even - not quite matching her enthusiastic happiness but at least calm. “A house with a room in it just for books.”

Encouraged by Jester squeezing his hand again, Caleb keeps going. He talks haltingly about a little house, maybe backed up to a forest, not much to look at but built well. Sturdy. There’s none of her practiced familiarity, the clarity with which she’d spoke of her garden like it was right there in front of her, but it gets easier as he goes on. Caleb starts to be able to see it - the wide windows he can hear the rain against, that let the sun pour in in the summer, an overstuffed chair where Nott can nap in the pooling light. The mismatched shelves, the books lined up on them, neat and attentively maintained.

There are other things too. Things he thinks of but doesn’t tell Jester about. Things like a pantry that always has food and a front door built without a lock - if this house is his dream, there would be no need for one. No question that anything or anyone inside it would be safe. These are details that start adding themselves unbidden, catch in Caleb’s chest and ache there, and he thinks maybe he’ll be able to say them to her, eventually. Later, if they have enough time for there to be a later, enough time for them to talk about dreams again like this.

Just long enough after Caleb has fallen silent again that he’s starting to feel over-exposed, the vindictive regret that comes after accidentally revealing more than you’d meant to or realized at the time, Jester blessedly takes over again. She shakes him lightly, their linked hands jostling, and he can hear a smile in her voice.

“Oh, _Caleb,_ that sounds just _lovely.”_

For a moment, he feels an instinctive sharpness in response, bristling at what has the potential to be mocking or pity, or maybe her trying to cover up regret at how she never should have asked him a question he’s so woefully ill-equipped to answer. But this is Jester. And so of course Caleb should’ve known better than to take her tone for anything but genuine delight in what he’s described. Proving his point, she proceeds to launch down another line of thought, words faster and more enthusiastic as she seems to take both of their dreams and weave them together, extrapolating and elaborating out past the two of them.

Yasha, Jester decides, can pick as many of her wildflowers as she wants, keep a collection of them. A forest would be good, because then there will be somewhere for Beau and Nott to run around when they don’t want to be cooped up inside. He and Fjord would be able to learn all sorts of magic and practice it together, Jester tells him, using their joined hands to jab Caleb lightly in the ribs. 

“And Molly can…” She pauses for a moment and he can hear the frown even if he’s not looking at her to see it. It’s gone as soon as it arrives, Jester sorting out the problem with a quick dismissal. “Well, I don’t know what Molly will do but he can find something, I'm sure. He’s very good at that.” There’s another poke, Jester pulling their hands down to prod at him again, and she goes quieter, the grand daydream shifting into something more direct as she says, “And when the weather is nice you can come and sit with me in my garden and read to me from one of your books.”

Caleb’s left hand, trapped still between he and Jester, finds the shape of a single copper coin through a pocket in his jacket and he traces the outline of it with a fingertip, the most he can likely move without disturbing her. It’s solid and round, a familiar weight and shape. It’s something to focus on. He’s having a little trouble breathing, the tight feeling in his chest distracting and almost painful. Jester, maybe having noticed his lack of response, maybe having simply finished what she has to say, has gone quiet as well.

“That is-” she starts after a few long, empty moments. There’s something almost shy in Jester’s voice now, different than how she usually sounds in a way that hits an odd chord in Caleb. Anxious. Self conscious. “That is, if you think you would like that.”

The idea of continuing to let her think he may have somehow taken offense to what she’d said - the wonderful, _kind_ things she’d said - is enough to propel Caleb’s frozen voice into motion, saying suddenly, “I would. I think I would like that very much.”

“Oh!” The shyness is gone, replaced by something bright and far more Jester-like. “Good. I’m glad.” She gives another sigh, this one happy rather than exasperated, and Caleb is relieved. He’d realized with a jolt of guilt that he really doesn’t like the idea of being the reason she’d doubt herself at all. Not when she’s the kind of person who asks about other people’s dreams and wants to hear their answer, weaves it in with hers until they sit together in front of a tapestried imaginary future, alive with names and faces, books and flowers and the company of friends.

“You’re a very good person, you know that?” If asked, Caleb wouldn’t have been able to identify why he says it, except maybe that he has to. Or maybe that it’s less about needing to say it and more about needing her to hear it.

“Thank you for saying that,” is Jester’s response, soft and fond, and Caleb shakes his head. His hair whispers against rough pack fabric, loud and static in his ears. 

“I’m not _saying_ that,” he insists, because he needs to be sure she understands, that there wasn’t a miscommunication or ambiguity somewhere that he’d missed. It wouldn’t be the first time. “It’s true. You are.”

There’s no response from Jester this time except for the turn of her face, like she’s hiding it half in the packs under them, half in Caleb’s shoulder. _The company of friends,_ he thinks again, then closes his eyes to try and imagine it. He snaps them open once or twice, feeling silly, before managing to keep them shut, and it fades in, piece by piece. It’s almost like he’s there, like he can see it in front of him. A garden, with Jester and the flowers and the sun, a little house somewhere off in the distance down the road.

Yes. He would like that very much indeed.


End file.
